


Loverman

by WhenasInSilks



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Artist Sarah, Coercive Behavior, Dark, Dark Jareth, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Folklore, Modern Setting, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Psychological Horror, Romantic Entitlement: A Horror Story, Sarah is bi, Serial Killers, Soulmates, because fight me, but if you're triggered by that you might want to give this a miss, no actual dub/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 05:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14489946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenasInSilks/pseuds/WhenasInSilks
Summary: They’d found the fourth body in the river that morning.(aka I wrote a serial killer AU for Labyrinth. Except it's not an AU.)





	Loverman

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what the update schedule on this will be, but I found it on my computer and liked it too much to leave it to gather dust. It will have four chapters. Eventually. But probably not any time soon. 
> 
> I’ve appended the original author’s note, mostly as a matter of historical curiosity (I clearly felt really really strongly about this story at one time). All except the warning, which I reproduce here: 
> 
> Anyone triggered by depictions of coercive or obsessive behavior may want to skip this one.

**Chapter 1**

* * *

_Psycho killer! Qu'est-ce que c'est?_  
_Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better  
Run run run run run run run away._

“Psycho Killer,” Talking Heads.

* * *

They’d found the fourth body in the river that morning.

“Yes, I saw,” Sarah said into the phone. “We get the internet in Pennsylvania too.”

She glanced down at the article open on her laptop.

_“Early eyewitness reports identifying the victim as missing Jefferson student Lindsay Bostwick (24) have yet to be confirmed by police._

_Bostwick, a first-year medical student, has long been a rumored victim of the notorious Philadelphia serial killer known as the ‘Hunger Man.’ Bostwick was first reported missing two months ago, mere hours after the body of the killer’s last confirmed victim, Patricia Ward (20), was discovered in an alley in Old City.”_

“I don’t like it,” her father was saying. “It was bad enough with you living alone in that place—”

“What?” Sarah asked, feigning ignorance. “Philly?”

She was only half-listening anyway. It’s not like she didn’t know what came next.

_“It was Ward’s disappearance and subsequent murder that first brought the ‘Philadelphia Hunger Man’ to national attention._

_The killer’s nickname references his unusual method of murder—acute starvation—but he has become just as notorious for his selection criteria: all three confirmed victims—Ward, Maggie Ellman (19), and Erica Yuan (22)—were fair-skinned women with dark hair and green or hazel eyes—_

“—gangs and god knows what else, and now there’s some maniac running around kidnapping girls that look just like you?”

Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose. “I know you don’t like it, dad, but you’re not always going to like everything about my life.”

“It’s not _safe_!”

Sarah mouthed the words along with her father, jabbing the down key as punctuation. The retort died on her lips as the page skipped down and an image filled her screen.

“I can look after myself,” she said, but the words came out weak and distant even to her own ears.

Lindsay Bostwick gazed up at her with bright, unseeing eyes.

 _God_ , Sarah thought. _She really does look like me._

The photographer had plainly caught her by surprise—she sat hunched over a spread of papers, one hand curled protectively around a venti take-away cup. But there was humor in the quirk of her unmanicured brow, humor and intelligence in the dark-shadowed eyes. Sarah’s finger hovered over the screen, tentative and tender, as if she could erase those dark smudges with a touch.

“I want you to come home,” her father said abruptly.

Sarah jumped, slamming the laptop shut.

“This ‘Hunger Man’—”

“I prefer ‘Snow White Slayer,’” Sarah said airily. “So much more descriptive, don’t you think? And alliteration’s always a bonus.”

She was barely done speaking before she was biting her tongue. It’d been a cheap shot. Unworthy. Disrespectful. ( _Lindsay Bostwick’s eyes…_ ) They’d had the same damn conversation once a month for the better part of five years and he _still_ managed to get to her, every time.

“I’m serious,” said her father, ignoring her. ( _Every damn time_ …)

Another voice joined her father, pitched low and soothing. Sarah closed her eyes. Good old Irene. She _would_ try and play peacekeeper. A few seconds of murmuring, too quiet for Sarah to hear, and then—

“I think it’s _exactly_ the time!” her father snapped. A crackle, as if he were adjusting the phone against his ear. “How much longer are you going to continue this ridiculous experiment? Making minimum wage in a coffee shop and selling your watercolors on Itsy? You’ll be twenty-four next month, for god’s sake!”

Sarah grit her teeth. _You don’t say_.

Her father’s voice softened suddenly, growing almost pleading. “Come home, Sarah. We’ll find you a real job, maybe even get you enrolled in college. You know we’re happy to pay as long as—”

“As long as it’s practical, yeah, I know. Dad, we’ve had this discussion. Where I live and what I do there are my choices to make, and I’m not going to leave my life behind just because I have the same color hair as some dickless psycho’s high school crush.”

A moment of silence, except for his labored breathing. Then a growl of, “ _You_ talk to her,” followed by the long crackle of a phone being transferred.

The distant sound of footsteps retreating. Then her step-mother sighed. “I’d tell you he’s only worried about you, but you already know that.”

_I’d say 30% worried, 70% being a close-minded, controlling old bastard._

“He’s always worried about me,” she said instead.

“Can you blame him? _I’m_ worried about you, Sarah,” and indeed, the worry was plain in her voice.

“Irene—”

“No, listen, honey, I know you won’t talk about leaving, but there must be some sort of… precautions you can take? Maybe a friend you can stay with until all that blows over? What about that lovely girl who came for Thanksgiving—what was her name? Padma?”

Sarah winced. “Priya. But we’re not— It’s not—”

A moment of exquisitely awkward silence.

“Well,” Irene said with resumed brightness, “maybe you could dye your hair. I always thought you’d look so pretty as a redhead!”

Sarah gave a perfunctory smile. “I’ll think about it,” she lied.

“It’s just that every time they talk about those poor girls on the news, it’s like—”

“No, I get it. I’ll… something.”

“Well.”

“They’re not watercolors.” It wasn’t what she’d meant to say.

Irene gave a minuscule sigh. “I know. Mixed media, isn’t it? Canvas and acrylic and— and—”

“Found objects, mostly, yeah, although I’ve been experimenting a lot with texture recently. Anyway. You, uh…” Sarah licked her lips. “I sent you an e-mail?”

“You… Oh! Yes, yes, of course, the exhibition! It’s such wonderful news, honey, we’re _so_ proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Sarah said, and waited.

“Of course, you know how it is, with Robert’s work, and on such short notice—”

“Of course. Well, it’ll be on for a couple of weeks.” Sarah cleared her throat. “Anyway, it’s been a blast, but I should really get going.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure!” Was Sarah imagining things, or was there a note of relief in Irene’s voice?  “Always wonderful to talk to you. Have fun with—”

“You bet.”

“And stay safe, okay?”

“Buh-bye,” said Sarah, and ended the call.

In the privacy of her apartment, she placed her hands flat on the wall and banged her head gently against it, once, twice. Her laptop beeped and whirred gently. Beneath the lid, she knew, Lindsay Bostwick still stared out at an unseen photographer, her face forever frozen in that expression of startled candor. 

She pulled out her phone. She still had at least half an hour before she’d be really, unforgivably late…

The phone twitched as a notification popped onto the screen.

#hungerman was trending.

Sarah jammed the phone into her back pocket, snatched up her keys and bag, and headed out the door.

Outside the first-floor apartment, she paused. She still had time. She could knock and— But it was such a stupid thing, surely she shouldn’t be bothering—

“Oh, for the love of—” The door swung open. “Come in before you give yourself an aneurysm.”

“How’d you know I was out there?” Sarah asked, obeying the summons.

“Heard you,” Daniel replied as the door swung shut behind her. “For a skinny girl you sure do walk heavy. You’re just in time to help me feng shui the place.”

“I’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect! We’ll have time to move the couch _and_ the stereo.”

In the end, they moved not only the couch and the stereo, but both bookcases and the television.

“So,” said Sarah, grunting slightly as she felt along the back of the media stand (“The remote fell and your arms are just the right size!”). “I’ve been thinking—” Her fingers closed around something long and rectangular. “Aha!”

“So,” she continued, getting to her feet, “I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo.”

Daniel, who had been industriously scrubbing dust from his rescued remote, looked up. “That right. What was the fight about this time?”

Sarah sighed. “Same as usual. Only now he can pretend he’s just worried about my safety.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. “Oh, no. You’re not going to get me like that. What do I look like, a therapy pez dispenser? You go ahead and take those daddy issues to an actual shrink.”

“I just helped you re-arrange your entire living room!”

“ _That_ was for _friendship_.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “And on that note, I’d better head out. I’m late enough as it is.”

“Where you off to?”

“Pub crawl. Friend’s birthday.” She made a face. “Good thing I switched shifts tomorrow, because if I’m not spending the whole day tomorrow with my face in the toilet, I don’t know Helen. Tequila shots,” she clarified with a shudder.

“Mm. And where is this pub crawl starting?”

“Dirty Frank’s, up on South Street. Why?”

He nodded decisively. “I’ll walk you there.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, it’s only a twenty-five-minute walk.”

“Exactly. It’ll be no problem at all.”

Sarah folded her arms. “Daniel, I’m a grown-ass woman, and I don’t need this kind of over-protective patriarchal bullshit—”

“Look, when it’s my turn, and the city gets a maniac who prefers chubby gays on the shady side of thirty, I will have you walk me _everywhere_. I will have you walk me from my bedroom to the bathroom when I get up to pee in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, this killer has no taste, and so for now, I’m walking you.”

Sarah considered this.

“I would be _very, very sad_ if you were murdered. Can you live with that on your conscience?”

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she clapped a hand over it. It muffled the sound, just barely, but her skin still tingled with the vibrations.

“Well?”

“Fine,” she said, as if in begrudging concession, “but there’s no way in hell you’re walking me to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

He shot her a blinding smile. “Never say never!”

Waiting for him by the door (“But first, speaking of having to pee…”), Sarah pulled the phone out of her pocket again.

She’d been expecting it, but it didn’t make it any easier to read. The words slithered down her throat and settled low in her stomach, a squirming, sickening knowledge, something noxious and slick.

_Missing med student Lindsay Bostwick confirmed as the fourth victim of Philadelphia killer._

At the sound of footsteps, she hastily shoved the phone back into her pocket.

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” Sarah said, attempting a smile. “Let’s go.”

She turned to the door, but Daniel stopped her with a hand on the shoulder. “Hey. Everything alright?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“You’re white as a sheet.” His frown deepened. “You know I wasn’t being serious, before. If you really need to vent…”

Sarah was shaking her head. “It’s cool. I’d much rather hear about this guy you’ve been seeing.”

“Oh, him? I’m not too sure about him. We don’t actually have all that much in common. But he’s got these really great arms— Here, let me show you a picture.”

And they were off, out the front door, down the steps, and into the shadowy arms of the Philadelphia night.

* * *

By the third bar of the evening, Sarah was settling into a comfortable buzz. There were twelve of them, packed around the table, with Helen holding court at the far end. Sarah only knew a handful of the people there, and under other circumstances, might have made an effort to introduce herself, but there was something soothing about the warmth of the lights overhead, and for now she was content to sit and let the conversation wash over her like breakers at the shore—

“Having fun?” someone murmured in her ear.

She gave a little jump, then twisted around and smiled as Max pulled up a stool just behind her.

“Yeah, actually.” She lowered her voice. “It’s way more chill than I’d expected. I figured Helen’d have us swimming in Jose Cuervo by now.”

Max looked shifty. “She… may be under the impression there’s a little something _extra_ waiting at the end of the night.”

“Extra?” Sarah repeated. Then her eyes widened in realization. “You _didn’t_.”

This earned her an expressive roll of the eyes. “Of _course_ not. Rolling after a pub crawl, can you _imagine_? I think Helen only considers her birthdays a success if she can’t remember them the next morning.”

“So what’re you going to do?”

“Wait ’til the last stop, tell her my hook-up fell through, and buy a few rounds of shots to make up for it.”

Sarah snorted. “Smooth.”

Across the table, someone was trying to get her attention.

“What about you, Sarah? _Sarah!_ ”

“What’s up?”

“Have you tried Tinder?” Helen demanded.

Sarah shrugged. “I went on a few dates. It’s not really my thing, to be honest.”

“Dates?” one of Helen’s friends—Sarah didn’t know his name—echoed. “But I thought it was supposed to be, like, Grindr for straights.”

“See, that’s what _I_ thought, but apparently not! Priya was just telling me she met—”

Someone elbowed Helen in the ribs, and she cut herself off abruptly. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Sarah said, and then, as everyone continued to stare: “No, _really_ , it’s no big deal. We broke up months ago. Water under the bridge.”

Beside her, Max laughed. “Ya’ll look like someone _died_.”

The tension broke as a couple other people laughed.

Sarah stood up. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Try and get the feet out of your mouths by the time I get back, okay?”

“Careful,” said Max, straight-faced. “It’s _dangerous_ out there.”

Someone else began to chant: “Psycho killer! _Qu’est-ce que c’est?_ ”

Sarah flipped them off good naturedly and headed towards the bar, off-key singing chasing her through the door. From the sounds of it, most of the table had joined in.

“Better run run run run run run run awaaaaay!”

* * *

The area around the bar was packed, a raucous press of bodies all clamoring for drinks. Sarah hung back a moment, scanning for gaps in the crowd. One of the patrons, a solidly built man in an Eagles jersey, caught her gaze, angling himself slightly towards her. Hurriedly, she looked away.

She couldn’t say for sure what made her notice the girl. Something in her body language, maybe—the curl of her shoulders, as if she couldn’t find it in herself to remain upright, or the way her head drooped and nestled against her chest, baring her neck, slim and vulnerable and shockingly pale against the darkness of her hair. She sat alone in a corner across from the bar, propped against a table, one hand loosely curled around a glass of beer. The glass was full to the brim.

Sarah hesitated, then made her away across the room.

“Hey,” she said.

The girl gave no response.

Sarah tried again, pitching her voice to be heard above the roar of the crowd.

“Hey! You okay?”

She raised her head at this. The movement shook a strand of hair loose from where it had been tucked behind her ear. It fell across her face, obscuring most of one eye and a third of her mouth. She made no effort to brush it aside.

“Where are your friends?”

The girl’s outfit—crop top, sequined mini-skirt, and a pair of truly precarious heels—suggested a sorority girl gone for a night out. But sorority girls, in Sarah’s experience, usually traveled in packs. She glanced again at the solitary drink on the table.

“Friends?” the girl echoed. She spoke slowly and with an exaggerated stretch to her lips, as if the word were in some unknown language.

“Did you come here with anyone?”

“I… I came, I don’t… There was music, and then…” Her face contorted and she spoke again, as if to reassure herself. “There was music.”

Her voice was quiet, and Sarah leaned in closer to hear. As she bent her head, she caught a whiff of something cold and fresh, like wintergreen, or the sparkle of sunlight on snow, or the memory of the color blue.

Sarah gave her head a little shake and the impression vanished.

“Do you need help getting home?” She waited a beat and then, receiving no response, added, “or do you have someone already helping you?”

“There—there was someone,” the girl said hesitantly.

“Okay,” she said, “that’s good. Do you know where they are?”

“He’s—he was here. I just saw him, he was— He was going to…”

“Going to what?”

“He _was_ here,” the girl insisted, looking at Sarah almost pleadingly. “He _was_ , he— He’s coming, he _said_ , he said we’d go—”

“I’m sure he did,” Sarah soothed. “Just wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.”

She shoved and elbowed her way through the raucous press of bodies around the bar, ignoring the shouts of indignation, and caught the bartender’s eye. He cocked his head towards her and she leaned forward.

“I think that woman has had too much to drink.”

He cast a quick glance in the direction she’d indicated, then gave a short nod. “We’ll cut her off,” he said, and turned towards another customer.

“No, hang on, wait!”

He looked back at her impatiently.

“It’s more than that. I think she might be on some sort of drugs.”

“She bothering you?”

“What? No, I’m just concerned.”

“If she’s not bothering you, there’s nothing I can do.” He made to turn away again, but she intercepted him.

“I’m _worried_ about her.”

“You think she needs an ambulance?”

“No, I just—”

“Then there’s nothing I can do.”

“That’s ridiculous! There’s got to be something—”

“Lady. If she’s bothering you, go talk to the bouncer and he’ll see her out. If she’s sick, we’ll call an ambulance. Otherwise, there’s _nothing I can do_.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Looks like she’s gone anyway.”

Sarah whirled around. “What? When?”

“Just now. Boyfriend come and got her.”

“Boyfriend?” Somehow, the epithet didn’t quite fit. It hadn’t _sounded_ like she was waiting for a boyfriend, it sound like— “Did they come in together?”

The bartender shrugged.

Sarah bit her lip. “What’d he look like?”

He shrugged again. “Blond. Leather jacket—long one.” Apparently feeling this was description enough, he turned his back decisively on her.

She hesitated, then turned and shoved her way back through the crowd and towards the door.

* * *

For all it was a Friday night, the streets were fairly empty. A few people walked alone or in small groups, but none of them fit the bartender’s description. Of the girl herself, there was no sign.

A group of college boys stood smoking under a street light. One of them called out to her.

“Hey sexy, what’re you up to?”

Sarah turned. “I’m looking for someone. Two people. A girl, dark hair, around my height, and a man, blond, in a leather jacket. Have you seen them?”

“Only girl I’ve seen like that is you. And if it’s a blond you’re looking for, my buddy Tom’ll be happy to volunteer.”

He slapped the unfortunate Tom on the back, causing him to spit out his drink to general laughter.

Sarah turned on her heel and began to walk away, scanning the streets and ignoring the shouts from behind her.

“Hey, where you going? I thought we were having a nice conversation!” And then, a moment later: “Bitch!”

She walked the length of the street and back again, glancing down every alley, searching for any sign. She knew, rationally, that the girl must be long gone by now, but something in her demanded that she keep looking, that she must be close, so close—

She cocked her head, straining her ears for any clue. Only the ordinary noises of the city—the slow rumble of tires down uneven streets, the muted clamor of voices from the bars and restaurants, the footsteps of passersby, the laughter of the frat boys she’d left behind. And yet—Underneath it all, there was something, some peculiar sense of … _muffledness_. She probed at the feeling. It had a kind of texture to it, coarse and fibrous. She pushed harder. There was a strange sense of something shredding.

Then she heard, quite clearly from the alleyway beside the bar, a familiar voice.

“—not my name. My name is Marcie.”

Her tone was high-pitched, plaintive and uncertain.

A man’s voice replied, a smooth, accented baritone. “Hush, my dear, you’re becoming confused.”

“I… oh…”

Sarah had begun to walk towards the alley, but the man’s next words froze her in her tracks.

“I ask for very little, you know. You will do exactly as I say, and worship me as your king, and love me as desperately as your poor little heart will allow, and in return...” Sarah gave an involuntary shudder as the voice dropped low, growing richer. “I shall show you wonders such as you never dared to dream of. Would you like that?”

“I, um…”

The sound of the girl’s voice freed Sarah from the well of memory into which she’d fallen, and she started into motion.

The man continued, confident and soothing. “But of course you would. How could you not? I shall treat you as a queen and glut you on dreams and bring you marvels beyond your imaginings.”

Sarah rounded the corner. It was hard to see much of anything in the darkness but she could just about make out a tall figure, his back to her, bent over a smaller one, and the gleam of pale hair in the moonlight.

“Hey,” she called. “Hey!”

The man continued as though she had not spoken. “You do want that, don’t you, my dear? To be a queen? Tell me you want it.”

“I—” the girl said helplessly, “I want it, I do…”

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Sarah said again.

“Of course you do, and I want so much to give it to you.”

“What’s going on here?”

“All you have to do is—” He stopped. His head cocked, and his face turned ever so slightly towards her, though she still couldn’t make out any details. “Are you speaking to me?” His voice was faintly incredulous.

“Yeah, I am. What’s going on here?”

He moved slightly, stepping closer to his…girlfriend? Surely not. Companion? Prey?

“It’s bad form to interrupt,” he said evenly.

“Yeah, well, it’s bad form to try and seduce someone who’s smashed out of their mind. In fact, it’s illegal.”

He straightened at that, pulling away from the girl and turning towards Sarah. “Who _are_ you?” he asked, irritation in his voice, and no small measure of curiosity.

As he turned, his face came into the light for the first time. The shock of it was indescribable. No. It was _impossible_. And yet, that face… that _face_ …

He seemed to be having a similar reaction. Annoyance drained from his face and was replaced with a strange intensity. He took a step forward. “You look…” he said and trailed off.

Gazing at him, she thought for a moment she must have been mistaken. He was so ungodly _thin_ , his face drawn and haggard and his hair matted and dull. But there was no mistaking those eyes.

“It’s you,” she said, faintly.

A sudden, terrible joy filled his eyes and set them to blazing.

“Sarah,” he breathed.

The girl behind him made a faint noise, but he didn’t appear to notice.

He gave a sudden shout of laughter, joyous and far, far too loud. “Sarah!” he said again, and this time her name was no caress—it was a hallelujah. He stepped forward, arms opening wide as if to embrace her. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah Sarah SarahSarahSarah _Sarah_.” He spoke it like an incantation—like a prayer, lips working in some profane paternoster. _Our Sarah who art in Sarah, hallowed be thy—_

“I’m here,” protested a voice from behind him, high and distressed—the girl, Marcie. “Here, I’m _here_.”

“Quiet,” he snapped. “Stay where you are.”

Marcie subsided.

He came to a halt directly in front of her, his face radiant. “Sarah,” he said again, and there was a curious emphasis this time, like the final word in an incantation—a binding. “Ah, how lovely you are. Lovelier even than I remembered, and your face has not once strayed from my thoughts these seven years.” He lifted a gloved hand towards her cheek.

She jerked out of the way.

“Don’t touch me.”

The brightness of his smile dimmed somewhat. “Recalcitrant as ever, I see. No matter.” His hand hung in the air a moment longer, then slowly fell again to his side.

“What have you done to that girl?”

“That—?” He glanced over his shoulder, following the direction of her gaze, and laughed. “Oh. Trust you to focus on the trivialities.”

“I don’t think she’s a triviality,” Sarah said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

He shook his head at her, smiling fondly. “She is no one, precious love, she need not concern you. Oh Sarah, I have been searching for you for _so long_.”

He reached forward to catch her hands in his, and once more, she pulled away.

“It’s you,” she said, a sick certainty in her, and she wondered in that moment if she’d known all along, or if it only felt that way. “You’re the one taking those girls.”

He blinked at her. “Which girls, dearest?”

Her voice shook as she spoke, although whether with fear or rage or sorrow, she could not say. “The ones who _died_.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. Those girls. I had no idea mortals paid attention to such things.”

“Why did you—what were you _doing_ to them?”

He laughed again. “Really, Sarah, such concern. I only _kept_ them. They were quite happy to stay—I made certain of that.”

“They—they were starved to death! The newspapers said—”

Like famine victims, the reports had said, sunken eyes and fragile skin pulled too tightly over bone.

He frowned. “Yes, they did tend to deteriorate rather quickly,” he said, looking irritated at the memory. “But it was no doing of _mine_. I gave them all the peaches they could stomach. It is not my fault they did not appreciate the gift.”

“Peaches?” Sarah echoed, uncomprehending. Then, with a stab of horror: “You were feeding them _dreams_?”

“Naturally.”

She took a step backwards, pressing the back of one hand to her mouth. God, _god_. She could just picture it, too: girl after girl, like enough to be sisters—like enough to be _her_ sister—waltzing through endless crystal palaces. Would they even have felt it, the dizziness, the pain as they grew weaker and weaker, their flesh wasting away as their bodies consumed themselves in a desperate search for nourishment? Would they even have _known_?

Or would they have been drugged too deep for that? All blithe and unaware as they withered away, trapped in an enchanted palace of his making, dancing themselves to death?

“You can’t—” She was stammering now. “People can’t live off of _dreams_.”

He put his head to one side, as if trying to decide whether or not she was serious. “In my experience,” he said, and even in his ruin of a face that crooked smile was devastating, “humans live off of little else.”

“And you’re going to take her too. God, you’re going to take her too and pump her full of lies and fantasies until she can’t even remember her own name and then you’re just going to leave her like that, leave her to starve, like all the others!”

“Of course not! Why would I?” He shook his head at her foolishness, eyes tender. “I have you now. My best, most precious thing.”

The words curdled in her stomach. She’d known, of course, known as soon as she realized it was him—that all those girls had died for _her_.

Still, she said, voice filled with all the certainty she could give it, “ _Not_ yours.”

“Not yet.” He pronounced the words with a delicate precision, his eyes gleaming with sudden cunning. “But you’ve a tender heart, my love, and how _easily_ it bleeds. It bled for a mewling babe you never wanted, for a dumb beast and a treacherous little scab of a dwarf—for all the trash and riffraff of the Goblin Kingdom. How much more, I wonder, will it bleed for a girl who takes your place, a girl who looks _just like you_?”

Her hands seized. “So, what? You going to starve me too, is that the plan? Poison me with dreams? Who are you going to replace me with when I die?”

He smiled. “Such passion, Sarah! It becomes you. But we shall have no need for dreams, you and I. And I—I shall never let you die.”

His voice was quite composed. It was not a threat, or a reassurance. It was a simple statement of fact, and she realized, with a sudden and dreadful clarity, that he was mad—that whatever rot had overtaken him in the years since she saw him last went far deeper than the surface. This was not the lordly caprice of the otherworldly king. This was something twisted and diseased, crawling— _festering_ —just behind the eyes.

“That isn’t really up to you, is it,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest, a flimsy barrier against the heat of his gaze.

“Isn’t it?” he asked. He cocked his head, then glanced over his shoulder. “My dear, what do you think?” He paused a second, as if in thought, then added, “You may speak.”

“ _Oh_ ,” said Marcie, with a gasp, as if surfacing from deep water, “oh yes, yes, anything, _anything_ you—”

“That’s enough,” he said, and she fell abruptly silent. He turned his gaze back to Sarah, his eyes crinkled with self-satisfaction.

Before she even realized what she was doing she stepped forward and struck him, a vicious crack across the face. The sound was far, far louder in the stillness of the alley than she could have anticipated. She stumbled back, horrified at the violence of her response and bracing for his, because she knew whatever he did in return would be far, far worse. But as he raised a hand to his face, she saw that the expression he wore was not anger or malice or triumph but shock.

She pressed her advantage.

“You disgust me,” she told him, voice shaking with the truth of it. “And if you think that display would convince me to let you anywhere near me you’re even crazier than I thought.”

Without waiting to see his reaction, she turned around and began to walk away, expecting him to laugh, to call her bluff.

What she wasn’t expecting was the high, almost animal noise of distress that came from behind her.

“ _Sarah_ —” Her name sounded as if it had been ripped from his throat, quite against his will.

She stopped, and slowly turned.

His eyes were wide and frantic in his skeletal face, lips parted in distress, hands fisted and trembling at his sides. He looked—

He looked like something dying.

“You can’t bear to let me go,” she said, slowly. “Not now that you’ve found me. And whatever you’ve done to the others, you can’t—or won’t—do to me. You need me to come willingly.” She raised her voice a little on the last word, turning it into a question.

The spasm that crossed his face was all the answer she needed.

“Let her go,” Sarah said.

His lip pulled back in a snarl.

“I won’t talk to you with her standing there, trapped like that. Let her _go_.”

For one moment she saw him wild and raw, like some creature caught in a trap, snarling and snapping in pain and impotent fury. Then in one breathtaking quicksilver change, he was once more all condescension and cool composure.

“If it distresses you,” he said, indifferently. “There’s many more where she came from, after all,” and Sarah realized then that she didn’t have the advantage—that she’d never have the advantage, not when it came to him. For all he wanted her, she was just one person, and he was too much—too powerful, and she—

There was a sudden gasp, and she looked over at Marcie in time to see her drop to her knees.

“Shit,” Marcie said. “Shit, _shit_.” She began to struggle to her feet.

Sarah hurried forward, hand outstretched, but the girl ignored it.

He spoke from behind her. “She can’t see you. Or hear you either.”

“And why is that?” Sarah demanded, rounding on him.

“You asked that I release her from enchantment, and I have done so. You, however, stepped into this enchantment quite of your own accord.” His eyes hooded, as if the thought pleased him, and she suppressed a shudder.

“And I can leave it that way too,” she said. The words—thank god—came out as a threat rather than a question.

“But you won’t.” His was the voice of someone used to command, certain and absolute, but his eyes were searching. “Not until we come to an accord.”

Marcie had propped herself against the wall and was now rummaging frantically through her purse.

“God, where even _am_ I? What time is—” She pulled out a phone and groaned as she looked at the display. “Erica’s going to _kill_ me.”

Her finger skated rapidly across the screen, and then she was hobbling out of the alley, phone pressed to her ear. “Erica? Oh, thank god. I’m not sure—the freakiest fucking thing—”

And then she was gone, and they were alone.

A brief silence. Somewhere in the distance a car door slammed. Sarah jumped. It had sounded like— _the click of a trap_ —and in her mind she saw doors closing.

“I’m not going to let you—” She took a deep breath, then continued in a rush. “Whatever it was you were saying to her. All that bullshit about kings and queens and gifts and dreams. I won’t— You can’t—” She was stuttering now, desperate to find expression but she couldn’t seem to put it into words. “I’m not _yours_.”

Something twitched across his face, there and gone before she could identify it. All he said was, “I ask only the pleasure of your company. The rest—” He put his head to one side, and his expression was somehow soft and hungry all at once. “The rest no doubt shall follow, given time.”

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with you, so take that off the table right now.”

“Oh, do be reasonable, Sarah.”

“I won’t do it,” she repeated. “I’ve got a life here, I’ve got a job, I’ve got _friends_ , I can’t just—” She realized suddenly that she was very nearly pleading with him, and that wasn’t what she meant. That wasn’t what she meant at all.

His gaze was keen, but otherwise indecipherable, as if his face were written in a language she couldn’t read.

“Well,” he said, after a pause. “It seems we are at an impasse. Since you intend to walk away from me this night no matter what I offer in return—” Another little twitch of a shudder. “—there seems very little point in offering at all. After all, it is a very large city, and filled with such a youth and life…” His cracked lips parted on a sigh.

Sarah felt sick. “M-maybe,” she said, and her voice was a wretched, thread of a thing. She cleared her throat. “Maybe we could come to some sort of compromise.”

“A compromise?” He echoed, rolling the syllables around as if tasting the word in his mouth. Suddenly, he laughed and clapped his hands together. “Like in a fairy tale! What a romantic you are, Sarah. I’d never have guessed it, not from the way you destroyed my ballroom. A compromise, yes. Shall we say… sundown to sunrise? That has the weight of tradition behind it.”

“Sundown to sunrise…what?”

“You bestow upon me the pleasure of your company. The rest of the time…” He waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes did not waver from hers.

Sundown to sunrise… Half her life, that was what he was asking, half her _life_ —

“It’s too much,” she said, the words spilling out of her. “Too much. I could— Maybe once a twice a week, but not…”

“That would hardly be an equitable exchange,” he pointed out. Then, thoughtfully, “Those girls for whom you show such regard—how did you say they died?”

“They— They starved to death. You didn’t—You weren’t feeding them, not anything they could eat.” Her voice chokes on a sob.

“Yes, I thought it was strange at the time. But then, mortals die so easily; it’s terribly hard to keep track.” His eyes bored into hers.

Sunset to sunrise. It was only April now—the nights weren’t so very long. And perhaps, given time, she could figure out—

 _Half her life_.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m still not going anywhere with. You did things with time in that Labyrinth of yours.”

“Then we shall remain here, and I shall bring the Labyrinth to you.” His lips pulled back in a smile, revealing pointed canines, inhumanely sharp. “You see how accommodating I am?”

“And I won’t— You can’t enchant me, or use magic on me or anything like that.”

“Not without your express consent,” he said easily.

“And in return, you’ll stop t-taking them.”

He inclined his head. “Have we a bargain?” His eyes were greedy—avid.

She shut her eyes and parted her lips. It took several tries before any sound came out. “Yes.”

“Then be it so,” he said solemnly. Then, in an entirely changed voice: “Oh, _Sarah_.”

She opened her eyes and beheld upon his face a mad tumult of emotions—awe and covetousness, tenderness and triumph, lust and longing and blazing, savage joy.

He took a step towards her and she almost gagged. He smelled of hospitals and graveyards—of dead and dying things. He reached out a hand.

She took a step back and came up against the dumpster behind her. “I never said you could touch me!”

But he didn’t try, merely traced in the air the contours of her face. The intimacy of the gesture was almost worse than touch.

She screwed her eyes shut. “I need you to back away.”

“Why?”

“You’re too close, and I can’t— _Please_.” As soon as the word left her lips she regretted it. It hung there in the air between them, and it felt like a pebble shifting at the top of a mountain. It felt like a beginning.

After a moment, she felt him move back, and opened her eyes again.

“You are tired. It has been… an eventful evening.” He chuckled, lips curling bright and sly like a child laughing at a secret joke. “Go home. Rest. I will consider your end of the bargain to begin tomorrow at sundown.”

What she felt then was not relief. She sagged against the steel of the dumpster. So this was to be her life then, dependent upon his capricious generosity for even a single night’s reprieve.

“Only first, grant me one thing.”

He moved closer and she was sure, _sure_ he was going to ask her for a kiss. She looked at his face, the way the papery skin stretched tight around his bloodless lips and she couldn’t bear it, god, _god_ , she couldn’t—

“Give me my name,” he breathed. “My name, from your lips.”

She swallowed. “You never told it to me.”

“But you know it,” he said, and tilted down his chin as though he sought a kiss indeed. “You know it just the same.”

She found that he was right. The name seemed to bubble up in her throat, pushing its way past reluctant lips.

“Jareth.”

His eyes fluttered shut and he inhaled deeply, as though he could breathe in the sound of it. And—perhaps it was a trick of the light—it was so dim, in the alley—but she could have sworn she saw color bloom for a moment on his pallid cheeks.

“ _Sarah_.” Her name was a sigh upon the air.

Before her eyes he began to fade, gone ghostly and grey as morning mist, as a nightmare before the light of dawn.

 _“Until the morrow_.”

And with that, he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> (original) A/N: If some aspects of this seem familiar, they’re meant to. I was rereading the first few chapters of Tithe, and it struck me how different they seem than the rest of the story—how my need to give Sarah a growing-up arc, my obsession with moral relativism, and my decision to place plot before tone led to a more conventional Sarah, a more morally-grey Jareth, and a less creepy fic. And I was having some nostalgia for roads not taken, and trying to imagine what a darker version of the story might have looked like, if I’d taken it in that direction.
> 
> This is what happened. This story grew out of hand fast. Bits of it I had to cut it out of me like a cancer. It’s a lot more personal than I’d expected, and much, much angrier. It feels different from anything else I’ve written, and I had some debate over whether or not to publish it. I tried to bury some of the anger under a more conventional horror narrative—I’m curious as to how much leaks through. So consider this a kind of Black Mirror version of Tithe, except with romantic entitlement instead of technology.


End file.
